Malaak startles me when she reaches out and squeezes my arm with her hand.
"Too skinny," she declares.
Peter laughs, telling me her words.
She lightly brushes my face with her hennaed hand.
"Too white," she exclaims, then asks Peter. "Why did you wed a female too small to give you healthy sons? There are many strong Bedouin who can fill your home with children."
Peter laughs a second time.
I don't take offense, as this is a polite controversy. Within a short while of arriving in the kingdom, I listened courteously as Saudis politely informed me that large, robust women give birth to tall, healthy sons. At five foot and two inches tall and weighing one hundred and ten pounds, I am not up to their physical standards for top quality human reproduction.
With a twinkle in her eyes, she directs her next question to me and waits patiently while Peter translates.
"Tell me. Why do you veil?"
This wise Bedouin woman has quickly seen through me. I decide to tell her the truth.
My words come from Peter's mouth.
"I am from a country where women do not veil," I confess. "I felt drawn to live your life. To know how it feels to live under the veil."
She nods with a new force, believing I am envious. "The Bedouin life is best."
"I wish to know your Bedouin life."
"What is it you do not know?" Her voice carries a shade of surprise, as though she believes the Bedouin life is well-known throughout the world.
"Everything." I pause. "Your childhood." Yes, I would start at the beginning. "What do you remember of your childhood?"
She sits silently for a brief time.
How I long to see her full face, to sit freely as companions, discovering all there is to know about the other. Given the opportunity, I know in my heart that we could become devoted friends.
She begins to speak slowly. "I was the oldest of many children. I remember small things of the early life. There is a picture of my father's tent in my mind. It was made of black goat hair. Six poles kept it upright. I liked to swing around those poles. My mother was always cooking. I remember a sweet taste of goat meat and rice. I remember the goats and the camels." Malaak is smiling once again, pleased to entertain me. "That's what I remember."
"You say the Bedouin life is the best life. What was the best for you?"
She does not hesitate. "The family. The family was the best. The desert brings a family close. There are goats to be tended, meals to be cooked, tents to be mended, and water to be found. My father watched the sky for clouds. When rain clouds appeared, we took down our tent and gathered our livestock and followed the clouds across the desert."
I know that the term Bedouin means "people of the desert." The harsh conditions of desert nomadic life produced a unique people who had a fierce love for the desert, despite its brutalities. This Bedouin woman displays every unique aspect of the prideful Bedouin character that I had previously imagined.
I now come to the sensitive questions. I edge closer to Malaak.
"When did you have to start veiling?"
Her black eyes narrow under her veil. "My mother veiled. All the women veiled." She shrugged. "I wanted to veil. So I took the veil early, when I around eight years old."
"Eight? You wanted to veil at age eight? You were just a child."
Her eyes flash with pride. "Veiling is an honorable custom."
This is not what I expected her to say. I want to hear that she detests the veil.
Her next revelation startles me more. "I was the favorite child of my father."
"More than his sons?"
"I was my father's pet."
Disbelief sweeps over me. Surely this Bedouin woman has lived a life of deceptive euphoria, believing that she was the preference of her father, even over coveted sons.
"And marriage? Were you forced to wed?"
She laughs aloud. "The day of my wedding was a burst of glory. My father killed two young camels and six fat sheep. All the women in my tribe gathered in my father's tent to make me even more beautiful than I was."
She pauses, remembering. "My husband said that I was a gift from God. When he first saw my face his tongue could not move. He claimed that my beauty almost stopped his heart and put him under the sands, into an early grave."
Desperate to expose the hypocrisies and humiliations of Saudi female life, I hopefully ask, "Then, after you were married, did he beat you?"
She laughs once more. "Beat me? Never! He was a poet!"
Poetry enjoys such popularity among Arabs that poets in Saudi society acquire great influence. Practically every Saudi man I know is an aspiring poet.
"He was a poet." I repeat numbly.
Her voice rises slightly. "Yes, a poet." She pokes my arm with her finger. "My husband did not beat the females in his tent." She chuckled, "He wrote them poems."
I fret under her knowing stare, speaking lowly. "Poems. He wrote poems."
At my look of disappointment, her eyes mirror amusement. She volunteers. "Here is my favorite."
Peter falters as he translates. Although he grew up in Egypt and spoke good Arabic as a child, the years of living in Europe without Arabic friends, have taken a toll on his Arabic language skills. Additionally, there are notable differences between Egyptian Arabic and Saudi Arabic. I can see that Peter is struggling.
Malaak repeats the poem several times to make certain her words are understood.
"The black veils of Arabia hide her from all eyes.
She is my secret, revealed only to me.
She is my rain cloud.
By God! I dream of her eyes, locked on my face!
There was no thought before her.
There will be emptiness without her.
My black-veiled woman!"
The blend of Malaak's musical voice combined with the swaying of her covered head is almost hypnotizing.
After Peter roughly translated, she looks at me expectantly.
I compliment her husband's talents. "That was lovely."
She grunts with satisfaction.
I look around the souk. "Where is this poet?
"Dead. For many years."
"Oh. I am sorry."
"No. I am an old woman, soon forty-three years on this earth. Besides, who am I to question God?"
I try to hide my surprise. From what I could see of the flesh around her eyes, I had judged her age to be no less than sixty-five years old.
I want her to lift her veil so that I can see her entire face but I don't dare make such a request. This Bedouin woman would be deeply offended at the idea.
"What happened to your husband, the poet?"
"An accident."
"Accident?"
She quickly explains. "One day my husband traveled with three other men to a small village to trade goatskins and camel bags for sweet water and food in a can. They visited a family in that village. This family had a musket gun left behind by the Turks from the time of war and the small round pellets to put inside the gun. Some men were sitting by the coffee fire admiring the musket when a young boy picked up the long thread that holds the pellets, and for some reason only known to God, tossed the pellets into the fire! One man was killed. That man was my husband."
"Oh my. How dreadful! I am sorry."
She is touched by my sympathy. She pats my gloved hand. "I have had my happiness. I am content." She stares straight into my eyes and whispers, "My husband seems dead to everyone else, but he is not dead to me."
At that juncture, I instinctively remove my black gloves and stroke her hennaed hands. This Bedouin woman is only eleven years older than me, but her hands tell a tale of hardship and premature aging.
I take a deep breath.
"Peter. Thank her for telling me about her life. Tell her that my knowledge has grown because of her."
She nods her head several times.
She then turns to Peter and dispenses sound advice. "It is all right to keep this wife for h
er sweet beauty. But take a second wife for size and strength — a strong woman who can give you many strong sons."
I'm smiling when I stand. Pulling the veil back over my face, I say my goodbyes once again. Malaak and I part and then Peter and I begin walking through the souk to Peter's parked automobile.
I try to unravel my confusion. With my own eyes, I have seen and I know the blatant discriminations against women in Saudi Arabia. By my Western standards, every female heart in Saudi Arabia should be spilling over with misery. Yet I have just met a woman who has lived her entire life behind the veil, and she feels she has lived a better life than my own. Of course, she has no knowledge of the female freedoms so cherished in my Western world.
After moments of consideration, I feel a surprising spark of gladness. I'm relieved that Malaak has lived a good life, a happy life.
Peter is walking ahead of me, and forgetting my need for secrecy, I speak loudly. "It is good that Malaak does not know about women's freedoms."
Peter grunts and gives an indifferent shrug.
"She simply cannot imagine a life different from the one she has lived. If she could, she would rebel," I say with assurance.
"Right," Peter responds.
Yes, I am truly glad that Malaak is a satisfied woman and is happy living under the black veil of Arabia. Since change will not come to her life, I am thankful she is unaware of anything more.
As Peter and I walk along the main street to our parked automobile, I hear an alarming confrontation between a mutawah and two Filipina women. With a raised stick poised menacingly, the man is angrily shouting.
I study the women's attire. They are both dressed modestly. The only issue that might raise his stick is their uncovered hair. But I know that foreign women working in Saudi Arabia are told by their employers that there is no requirement for them to wear a head scarf and abaaya. But the religious clerics have their own ideas on the subject, and opinions vary from one cleric to another. Foreign women really do not know what to do to discourage Mutawain attacks.
The two women are weeping and alternatively crying out.
"We are not Muslim, sir!" "We are not Muslim!"
I am grateful to see that the mutawah is accompanied by a city police office. In an effort to control the violent reactions of the religious zealots, the royals have had the wisdom to attach one regular police officer to each mutawah. The police officer will save these young women from a public thrashing, although there will be consequences if the religious clerics press the issue. Both will probably lose their jobs and be deported back to their country.
When he leads the two women to his squad car I overhear the policeman tell them in English that he is arresting them for indecent exposure.
Meanwhile the women around me — the veiled Saudis as well as foreign women — are moving away from the silent, still mutawah. When the policeman drives away, the mutawah will be free to terrorize any woman he chooses.
Peter and I stand and watch, speculating what poor female will next incur his wrath. Dressed as the most pious Saudi woman, with black gloves and stockings covering all my flesh, I do not feel in danger of his attention.
As Peter and I go on our way, my mind is full of activity as I question whether I will ever fully understand the impenetrable mysteries of life for women living in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.
Chapter Nine: The Wild Mutawah
When I arrived in the kingdom, I was told that as a non-Muslim woman I was not required to veil or even cover my hair. Of course, I was cautioned to be modest in dress. Despite the heat of Riyadh, there would be no sleeveless dresses or summer shorts.
I quickly discovered that the official government policy was poles apart from reality. The sight of an unveiled female face and blonde hair was a potential riot-causing event in the crowded streets of Riyadh. In fact, my uncovered blonde hair had caused a disturbance in the jewelry souk shortly after arriving in the kingdom. Since that dangerous moment, I had been careful to braid my long hair and to cover it with a black scarf.
Foreign women also inflamed the zealots in charge of public morals. To the despair of every woman living in the kingdom, these angry men had recently discovered the joys of spray paint. With flaming red beards and eyes glaring with hatred, Mutawain men traumatized shoppers by spraying red paint on female offenders of the faith.
I will never forget the day that I witnessed such an attack.
Only in the kingdom for a few months, I did not feel comfortable shopping alone. Peter instructed his Filipino office driver, Joe, to remain with me while his part-time Pakistani maid, Majida, and I shopped. I was in the market for a camera so we would go to the Batha souk, on the corner of al Batha and al Khazzam Street. The last thing on my mind was the danger of a roving mutawah for I was dressed modestly in an ankle-length dress with my long hair braided and hidden under my scarf and cloak. My face was on view for passing shoppers to see, but no Western women were expected to wear the face veil, so I felt safe.
Since Majida is Muslim, she was discreetly attired in a skirt that hung four or five inches above her ankles. Her arms were exposed from the elbows down, but I thought nothing of it since Majida is so petite that she looks like a teenager. The fabric on her head scarf was rather sheer, but the scarf was black and her hair was black, so with black layered on black, there was nothing for anyone to see. Majida's face was uncovered, but many Muslim women from neighboring countries do not always cover their faces, as the Saudi women do.
I felt that we were both well within the strict dress code required for females by Saudi society.
Joe strolled a few feet behind us while Majida and I window shopped. We were walking calmly past a dim alley when a human figure sprang up then swooshed down in front of us.
It was a mutawah. As a result of the unexpected shock, we both screamed. With a loud, angry cry, the man covered Majida's arms with red spray paint.
The man's face was deeply lined and his beard was henna-dyed. I was amazed that although noticeably old in years, he was young in body and spirit. It was as though the mutawah was attached to a powerful spring! I had never seen anyone but a professional athlete who had the ability to bound to such heights. His leaps were so forceful that his checkered headdress actually flapped in the air, reminding me of giant rabbit ears. Had we not been the focus of his demented attention, the incident would have been comical.
Still springing up and down, he began circling us, spraying Majida with red paint. Once or twice he dipped low enough to spray her legs before bounding into the air once again.
"Help!" I shouted. Eager for male assistance, I glanced behind me, searching for Joe. To my dismay, I saw Joe rapidly running away.
Only moments before, the busy street had hummed with shoppers, but the street had now emptied.
On his final leap, the crazed man reached out and pinched Majida's arm hard enough to bruise the flesh to bone.
Majida screeched in pain.
Standing motionless for the first time, the mutawah began to shout angrily.
I stood in amazement.
The mutawah was so enraged that the wrinkles on his face began to rise and fall with his words.
Too late, I was able to find my voice. I shouted in English, "Stop it! What is your problem? We are properly dressed!"
The mutawah looked at me for the first time.
My tone of voice, combined with a white face appeared to astonish him.
My heart was pounding but I tried to look forceful.
The man's piercing eyes were suddenly filled with intense hatred. It was my first occasion to look into the eyes of someone who plainly wanted to physically harm me.
I braced myself for the spray of paint that was sure to come.
Much to my surprise and relief, the mutawah turned his back and walked away as calmly as if the incident had never happened.
"My God!" My entire body was tingling from the shock of the attack. "Majida! Are you all right?"
Poor Majida was making low,
whimpering noises. She was rubbing her red-coated arms and hands. During the frenzied attack her face had been sprayed as well.
"Madam Jean, Madam Jean..." Majida burst into heaving sobs.
I grabbed her tiny hand and we began to stumble toward our parked car.
Heads appeared as shoppers peeked from the shop fronts. No one offered a gesture of sympathy.
I saw Joe lurking behind our automobile, so frightened that his face was pale and his eyes stretched open wide.
I bit my tongue, deciding not to rebuke him. Filipinos are routinely treated as one of the weak groups in the Saudi society, rarely enjoying mentors to protect them. Had Joe openly confronted the mutawah, he would probably have been flogged and then deported.
I suddenly felt a rush of shame. I should have reacted sooner. My lame excuse was that the attack had been so sudden that I was too stunned to counter the assault.
***
I shiver, forcing my thoughts to the present moment. I glance at Peter who is now calmly smoking a cigarette while studying camera equipment displayed in a glass case.
When the police car passes by, I look inside to see the two Filipino women. With heads in their hands, both are weeping, humiliated at being attacked and arrested.
Poor, poor women! They are as traumatized as the unfortunate Majida had been. Majida left the kingdom within days of the assault. When I pleaded with her to stay, knowing that she was returning to a life of certain poverty, she swore that, "I would rather starve in my poor village than live the life of a woman in Saudi Arabia."
Remembering the day she left, I am brushed by a great sorrow.
"Let's get out of here," I tell Peter.
My brief experience wearing the veil has been searing. I do not have to witness yet another injustice to grasp that female life under the black veils of Riyadh can be terrifying.
Despite Malaak's positive view of the veil, I know that most non-Bedouin women in Saudi Arabia do not share her views. And I know that as long as a single woman on earth is veiled against her will, I will always carry the weight of an invisible veil on my own shoulders.